THE MAFIA BOSS WATCHED ME PLACE A DINNER PLATE IN FRONT OF HIS NINE-YEAR-OLD SON AT HIS ENGAGEMENT PARTY—THEN HIS FIANCÉE SAID, “HE ALREADY ATE UPSTAIRS,” BEFORE HE EVEN ASKED WHY THE LITTLE BOY HAD BEEN SITTING WITH AN EMPTY PLATE FOR NEARLY AN HOUR.

Every muffled pop of gunfire echoing through the ceiling vents felt like a hammer blow directly against my ribs.

Benjamin stirred in my arms, whimpering softly in his sleep, his small fingers clutching my shirt as another distant explosion shook the foundations of the house.

"It's okay, sweetheart," I murmured, rocking him gently while tears streamed silently down my cheeks. "Your daddy is going to protect us. Your daddy is right here."

Beside me, Mrs. Gable sat with her revolver resting across her lap, her eyes fixed on the small auxiliary monitor showing the main hallway of the ground floor.

"He's holding the foyer," she whispered, her voice devoid of fear, filled only with grim determination. "They can't get past the grand staircase."

On the screen, we could see flashes of muzzle fire illuminating the shadows of the marble hallway.

Figures in black tactical gear poured toward the stairs, only to be cut down one by one by precise, calculated shots fired from the upper landing.

Luca Moretti was a ghost in the dark—moving with ruthless efficiency, eliminating the threat before they even knew where the bullets were coming from.

Then, the monitor flickered.

A tall figure wearing a heavy flak jacket broke through the smoke on the screen, holding a breaching charge directly against the reinforced door of the basement stairwell.

"They're heading down here," Mrs. Gable said sharply, standing up and cocking her weapon.

My heart leaped into my throat.

"Can they get through the panic room door?" I asked, my voice trembling.

"Not easily," Mrs. Gable replied grimly. "This room was built to withstand a military-grade rocket launcher. But if they cut the power to the digital lock, we'll be trapped inside permanently."

Suddenly, the screen went completely black.

The emergency red lights overhead sputtered, flickered, and then died, plunging us into absolute darkness.

Benjamin woke up with a sharp cry, burying his face in my neck.

"Miss Claire! I'm scared!"

"I've got you, Ben. Close your eyes. Don't look," I begged, holding him as tightly as I could while the sound of heavy boots echoed down the concrete stairs just outside our door.

Clang. Clang.

Heavy metal tools slammed against the steel door of the panic room.

"Open up! We know you're in there!" a harsh voice shouted from the corridor.

Mrs. Gable raised her revolver toward the reinforced door, her breathing slow and controlled.

"If they breach this door, Claire," she whispered into the dark, "you take the boy to the emergency ventilation shaft in the back corner. It leads out to the greenhouse."

"What about you?" I choked out.

Mrs. Gable didn't answer. She just smiled faintly in the dark.

Outside, a high-pitched whine filled the air—the sound of a plasma cutter chewing through the steel hinges of the door.

Sparks began to shower through the tiny seam at the top of the frame, illuminating the small room in a blinding, electric orange glow.